


On the Half Shell

by Romany



Category: DCU (Animated), DCU (Comics), Smallville
Genre: Angst, M/M, odd humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-11
Updated: 2008-03-13
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romany/pseuds/Romany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lois breaks it off with Clark. Bruce makes his move. It's pure disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Superman stands five feet away from Batman. They're in the cave and it's been a long night. Once again, the Joker is on his way to Arkham for what seems like the fiftieth time to Superman. And maybe he shouldn't even be here. It's not like Batman called him in or anything. This time the Joker had reached out to Metropolis and well, he had to respond, didn't he?

And so he's here. Just standing. He should go. Home. He doesn't want to think about it. She was right and...

"Go home to Lois, Clark," Batman—Bruce--says with his back to him, facing the monitor, dismissive as usual.

"She's not there," Clark says simply. And he looks down.

Bruce turns, still in cowl and mask. "You didn't say anything. Is she...?" In trouble. Kidnapped. In desperate need of help. Bruce only implies these things, but Clark knows what he means.

"No, she's fine. She left." Left her engagement ring on his desk. Brought in Bekin's to move all her things out of the apartment. And it wasn't the danger, she thrived on that, so strong and determined. It just didn't work, plain and simple. Happens to people all the time. And Superman.

Bruce's mouth sets in that familiar line. He doesn't say anything for a few seconds and then a few more. "You've told Diana, I assume."

"Well, yes, we've talked..."

"And she offered...comfort?" Bruce says this flatly so it sounds more like accusation than a question.

Comfort? In the form of a hug, sure, but... "Are you implying that I'd...? We're friends!"

Bruce pauses. His mouth appears less grim, and he tilts his head down by just a fraction. "The two of you appear to get along. Logically, she'd be your next choice."

"Lois and I have only been broken up for a few weeks. I'm not really thinking that far ahead."

Bruce nods. "Understandable." He turns back to the monitor, drums his fingers along the table. "This might affect our performance together. We should discuss this."

Clark, lingering before, feels the urge to flee. Discussions with Bruce can be either soul baring or a painful lecture, and Clark's never sure which one he's going to get. "Now?"

The fingers drum again. "Now is not the time. I'll contact you." Bruce faces the monitor, back fully to Clark, once again dismissive.

Clark floats, hovering and hesitant. "Well, okay. Goodnight, Bruce."

Bruce doesn't say another word. Clark turns in the air and flies out of the cave.

 

Two days later, his extension rings at the Planet.

"Hello, Kent here."

Bruce's voice, gruff and business-like. "This Friday. Six o'clock. Come to the manor."

And Bruce hangs up before Clark can say yes or no.

Great. Bruce is probably having another one of his parties. They'll have exactly five minutes for a heart-to-heart while Bruce pretends to stagger to the bathroom to elude one of his many companions.

 

But come Friday, Clark doesn't see any valets or cars for that matter as he walks up the long driveway from the gates to Wayne Manor. Most of the house lights are dimmed. Maybe he got the day wrong? He rings the bell.

Alfred opens the door. "Good evening, Mister Kent. Please, come in."

Clark smiles. "Hi, Alfred. How are you?"

"Very well, sir. Your coat?"

Clark sheds his trench coat, revealing his best suit, pressed and crisp, beneath. "I'm sorry," he says. "I thought tonight would be another one of those, well, parties."

Alfred gives him a small smile before putting up his coat. "Just myself and Master Bruce, I'm afraid. He's in the drawing room."

A few moments later, Clark finds himself in said drawing room, Bruce standing in front of the fire. There are candles spread around the room and none of the lamps are on.

"Ah, Clark! Great timing, I was just about to open the wine." Bruce is actually _grinning_. "Have you eaten? Alfred makes the _best_ appetizers, seriously." He turns toward Alfred, who has an eyebrow raised and looks a little stiff.

"Sir," he says, "Perhaps something a bit simpler for our guest would be more appropriate." There's a slight emphasis on the word 'appropriate'.

"Oh no, only the best for our Clark here. As you say, he is our guest." And there's an emphasis on the word 'guest.' Bruce's grin gets just a little harder.

"Very well, sir." Alfred turns his back and leaves.

"Bruce, really, I don't want to put either of you out..." He doesn't get it. This isn't the first time he's been here. Not even the tenth. Or fiftieth. Usually, they just grab a bite in the kitchen. Except when Bruce has to put up a front for the Gotham set. "Are you expecting someone else?" he adds, a whisper.

But Bruce isn't looking at him. Instead, he's busy pouring two glasses of wine. "Just you and me, Clark," he says, handing him a glass. "I promised you a little chat. Conversation always goes better with a little food, a little wine, a little music..."

"Music?" Even dressed as Clark, he's more articulate than this. Bruce is just acting _odd_.

"Silly me! Did I forget that?" Bruce _sashays_ , that's the only word that Clark can come up with, to the music center, one hand in his pocket, the other on his glass of wine. He peers for a moment, pushes a button. "Here we go." Soft jazz fills the room. He turns to face Clark again. "Try the wine. I picked it out with you in mind."

Clark looks at him quizzically, takes a sip. It's very dry yet spicy. But what does he know, he's not a wine person.

"Gewurztraminer. Some would say it's a sin to pair it with oysters, but I feel like being daring."

Oysters?

On cue, Alfred arrives. "Oysters on the half shell, sir." On the coffee table by the fire, he puts down a platter with oysters on ice, lemon wedges and some sort of sauce. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." And he says this more to Clark than to Bruce, which makes Clark more confused than ever. Clark fiddles with his wineglass, takes another sip, suddenly nervous, but with no idea why. Maybe he's just not used to Bruce going all out. He's used to lectures about discipline, stern looks, the brief touch on the shoulder and back to business.

Bruce must really feel sorry for him.

"That will be all, Alfred, thank you." Bruce says. Clark looks up from his glass. Alfred hasn't left the room. Alfred looks from Bruce to Clark. 

"If you need me, sir," he repeats. And he leaves.

Clark stares after him, the now empty doorway. "Is...is he mad at me?" Clark says.

Bruce looks at him, a small smile, more real than the odd grin. "You would think that, wouldn't you?" He shakes his head. "We had a small argument earlier. Nothing for you to worry about." Bruce drains his glass. "Well, would you look at that?" he says. "I already need another." The grin returns. "You'll have to catch up, Clark," he says while pouring himself another glass.

Catch up? Clark could drink a case of wine if he wanted but to no effect. He sighs, drains his own glass out of politeness, walks over and hands it to Bruce. Their hands brush in the process. And maybe Clark's imagining things, but Bruce's fingers seem to linger on the back of his hand before he reaches for the bottle and pours Clark another.

"Oysters, shall we?" Bruce sits on the couch, pats the cushion next to him. "Don't be shy."

And when Clark sits next to him, feeling gangly and uncomfortable, all hands and feet, Bruce drapes his arm across the back of the couch, leans in slightly and whispers, "Although I have to admit, I rather like it."

"Like...what?" Great, that just came out goof times ten. But he can feel the slight breath on his neck, fingertips glancing his shoulder, an answering drop of sweat on the small of his back. All nerves and the whisper of something else. Something confusing and inappropriate.

"You really are," the breath says as Clark stares straight at the fireplace. "Shy, I mean. At first I thought it all contrivance, a brilliant and calculated act. That has nothing to do with bravery. You're fearless in so many ways, courageous." The breath gets closer, a whisper in his ear. "But the shyness, that's real. You're so genuine, Clark."

Clark risks turning, only to find that Bruce has pulled away, leaning forward to the oyster plate.

"Oyster?" Bruce says, handing a shell to Clark and then retrieving one for himself.

"I don't see any forks," Clark says. He's not a complete bumpkin. He's been to enough dinner parties and charity events to be pretty sure that these are they kind you're supposed to, well, _slurp_ down. He's read Miss Manners _and_ Emily Post, recalls something about utensil-less food and propriety, but he feels inexplicably awkward, unsure.

The corners of Bruce's mouth twitch. "We don't need them," he says. He takes his shell, a demonstration, and tilts it toward his mouth. Eyes never leaving Clark, he...well, it's _obscene_ , the way his tongue darts out, lips parted to draw in the oyster meat and brine. And Clark, with an old pang and new pain, can think of nothing else but the darkened bed, his mouth moving up from Lois's thigh, up and into, on...He closes his eyes briefly. Accidentally suggestive. It must be. Maybe if he were one of Bruce's dates, this would be Bruce's prelude, a show of skill.

"Clark, are you all right?"

Clark opens his eyes. "Yes," he says, "I'm sorry. I just..." But his voice trails off, he can't bring himself to voice what he'd been thinking. Stupid, really, to be remembering _that_. Plus, he's not a woman, and Bruce's actions spoke all about how he'd be...with a woman. Clark shakes his head, gets the thought away, looks at his own shell.

"Your turn," Bruce says, eyes twinkling from concern to amusement. "Would you like a lemon wedge?" 

"No, that's..." And Clark can only stare as Bruce takes the wedge he offered Clark, bites and sucks.

"Mmm," he says. "Go ahead, Clark." And he waits, tilting his head so that the side of his face leans against the couch. Sensual, predatory, daring.

Clark blinks. Unable to turn away, he brings his own shell to his lips, tilts it. Instead of bolting it, he takes his time, letting the meat slide in, the juice. Somehow he manages not to spill a drop.

Not saying a word, Bruce takes the shell from his hand, places it on the table. Clark feels every second that Bruce's thumb slides across his palm.

"Do you really need these?" Bruce says, reaching out, taking off Clark's glasses. "It's just me." He places those on the table as well.

"Bruce?" This comes out a little hoarse, rough. Bruce can't possibly mean to be doing any of this. They're supposed to be talking about Lois, how the breakup might affect their jobs, how they work together. Clark isn't supposed to feel pinpricks dancing across his skin. He's not supposed to notice the curve of Bruce's arm, the graceful patrician hand reaching out to his large and clumsy one.

"Yes, Clark?" Bruce says as he takes Clark's hand in his, squeezes. He shifts, closer, his other hand brushing back Clark's hair and staying there.

"I...Are you...?" He can't get it out, the words stuck in his throat.

Just then, the music changes, no longer the soft instrumental jazz that Bruce had put on earlier, but something with vocals. Something...

"Is...is that Marvin Gaye?" Clark's spluttering and Bruce's hand is still in his hair.

"You know your Motown, Clark." Bruce sounds like he's _purring_. "You're full of surprises."

Down the hall and from the kitchen, Clark can hear a plate shattering on the kitchen floor. And Alfred muttering, "Oh dear lord!" This is followed by a determined march down the hall, footsteps getting closer until Alfred appears in the doorway.

"Master Bruce, a word with you in the kitchen, if I may, sir."

Bruce doesn't turn, but his shoulders tense. "Whatever it is, Alfred, I'm sure you can handle it."

"Then if Mister Kent would be so kind--"

Clark starts to rise, but Bruce doesn't let go of his hand, holds him gently in place. "We have urgent matters to discuss," Bruce says. "Matters of the heart. Am I right, Clark?" The words are meant for Alfred, but he says these to Clark. And they're supposed to be talking about Lois. Even if, with Bruce's roundabout tactics and odd behavior, they haven't so much as broached the subject.

"Yes. Yes, we do," Clark says.

"You heard the man, Alfred. He's fine where he is. Just fine." Bruce does turn now. "But I thank you for your concern. You might want to prepare a room, amend the breakfast menu, since Clark isn't our usual guest." He shifts, looks at Clark again, a small smile. "Waffles, if I remember correctly."

Clark's stayed over before, but not since Dick lived here. He'd arrive the night before a camping weekend so that he and Dick could leave bright and early the next morning. He and Dick would go through a heap of waffles, backpacks by the door, while Bruce would sit at one end of the breakfast table, a surly and mostly silent grouch in a bathrobe, clutching a cup of coffee. "I didn't bring anything," is all Clark says to this unexpected invitation.

Bruce gives his hand a squeeze. "I'm sure we can find you something."

Alfred relaxes at this small exchange. "Very well, sir." He leaves.

On the sound system, Marvin Gaye insists, "Ain't nothing like the real thing..."

"But Bruce, you didn't say anything about an overnight." In fact, Bruce hadn't said much at all. About anything.

Bruce brushes back Clark's hair again. "Our conversation might prove strenuous," he says. "The least I can do is invite you to stay."

This didn't sound like the Bruce he knew at all. In fact, if Clark didn't know any better, he'd say that he was getting the act. Which doesn't make any kind of sense. Why put on the elaborate charade if Clark knows all about the charade? Bruce, the real Bruce, just isn't the touchy-feely type. He stiffens at every presumptive hug, shifts away from the reassuring hand on the shoulder. The only times that Clark has seen Bruce touch anyone, initiate it, it's either the whole Brucie act or sex. 

Bruce's time with the League hasn't been entirely celibate, no matter how discreet he thinks he is. Even Wally's remarked, after seeing Bruce reach out, touch a woman's arm for no definitive reason, "Okay, they are _so_ doing it." And all of Clark's journalistic instincts silently agreed as he turned back to the coffee pot and replied, "That's really none of our business."

"Ah, come on, Supes. Don't tell me you two hetero life partners don't discuss all the nitty-gritty."

Clark had choked on his coffee. "Hetero _what_?"

"You and Bats. Superman and Batman this, Superman and Batman that. If you were a girl, Bats would be all over you. He'd be willing to break his teeth just to bite onto your ass."

"I don't--"

"Heck, if you were a girl, _I'd_ do you." Flash grabbed onto him then, made humping motions against Clark's leg. "Oh, Superwoman! Oh!"

Instead of pushing him away, because well, it _was_ funny, Clark turned slightly, grinned. "I like it fast," he had said. "Think you can keep up?"

Wally just laughed. "Oh baby, now you're talking. Rough me up."

They knocked over a coffee cup or two as they mock-wrestled, giggled even, down to the floor, Wally making dramatic smooching noises. Of course, they stopped when a pair of black boots somehow got in their way.

"Don't you have anything better to do than to annoy people?" Batman said, glaring down at Wally, arms crossed.

Wally scrambled up. "Hey, Bats, coffee break. I--"

"—are in my way. Leave. Now. We're on the job, learn to observe propriety."

"Hey! Why aren't you yelling at him?" Wally had said, pointed at Clark who was standing now too, straightening his cape. "We were both--" He paused, held up his hands. "Sorry I touched your boy."

"He's not my boy. He's--"

"Excuse me, sorry I touched your _man_."

"He's a founder of this league and deserves respect. Go." Batman loomed forward, impending threat. Wally took off with a wink and a wave to Clark.

Clark only raised an eyebrow. "Bruce, was that really necessary? We were just horsing around."

"He was on top of you, Clark. Unseemly behavior. Remember where we are."

Clark had to laugh. "Would you rather I was on top?"

"Don't be crude."

"Fine. If you can't take a joke--"

Bruce reached out then, ran his glove up Clark's arm. "To answer his question: no, I wouldn't break my teeth and no, I don't wish you were a girl."

Oh. So he had heard that part. "That's just Wally. You couldn't possibly have taken any of that seriously. I never said..." Clark's voice faded. He could feel the drumbeat of Bruce's pulse through the gauntlet that hadn't left his arm. He couldn't ignore Bruce's arousal. Clark flushed. Bruce said nothing.

A quick scan revealed the auxiliary member, the very female auxiliary member, of the league in Bruce's quarters, disrobing. Clark said, "The meeting starts up again in ten minutes. You'd better hurry."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Bruce's hand left his arm.

Clark only raised an eyebrow again. "Ten minutes, Bruce. Wally will give the propriety lecture in front of everyone if you're late."

"I'm never late," Bruce said as he left.

Clark turned back to the table, warmed up his coffee. He smiled and warmly greeted the other members as they each grabbed a cup in turn before heading back to the meeting room, gave Diana a hug. Something made him turn, a faraway whisper. And even though he didn't want to, his vision opened up and once again he saw Bruce's quarters. The fact that Bruce had only bothered to open up the parts of his uniform necessary for his current task as he pinned Something-girl—and why her name escaped Clark and his eidetic memory bothered him—to the wall was just this side of disturbing. The whisper entered Clark's ear again, Bruce's mask pointing toward the lounge.

"Are you watching, Clark?"

Something-girl didn't react, Bruce's whisper subvocal and only meant for him. Clark stiffened. Bruce didn't sound accusatory, angry. He sounded...Clark tried to narrow his focus back to the room he stood in, his coffee, something, but he didn't manage it before the hushed and gritted sounds of Bruce's hurried orgasm washed through him.

Throughout the meeting, for which Bruce had made it back on time, Clark couldn't meet his eyes. He didn't know if he'd ever understand Bruce's particular brand of humor.

Bruce and Something-girl didn't last two weeks. He never did, as far as Clark could tell, remove his mask in front of her.

"Clark?" Bruce said now, his hand still in his and the other having slipped from his hair down to his neck. "Will you stay? I think you could do with a night away from Metropolis." The firelight and candles softened the otherwise harsh planes of his face.

"I...I suppose I could," he said, feeling odd and exposed without his glasses. "I have to keep my ears open, you know, if something comes up."

Bruce smiles, open and unfamiliar. "Of course. Duty first."

"Don't you have to go out for patrol?"

"I made arrangements. It's covered. I'm all yours for the evening."

Flirting. Clark can't think of another word for it. Bruce is blatantly flirting. "Nice suit," Bruce says, hand working his way from Clark's neck to his tie, fingering it and then loosening it. "But it must be uncomfortable."

Marvin Gaye, in the background, suggests, "Let's get it on..."

Clark's tie slides off, falls to the floor. "Clark, has anyone ever told you that you have the most amazing eyes?"

Ordinarily, Clark would laugh at such an old and tired line. But the line is accompanied by Bruce shifting closer, hand sliding back around his neck. Bruce's own incredible eyes, a subtler blue than his own, are now half-lidded, his face tilting toward Clark's. Clark closes his own eyes when their lips meet.

And why not? For the first time in years, Clark doesn't have to back away, explain that he's involved with someone. He only has an empty and dark apartment to go home to. And although he's never really thought of doing this with Bruce, it all comes so naturally now. Everything with Bruce suddenly makes a startling sense, the odd possessiveness, the tension, even this cute little set-up. Of course it comes to this. They're kissing in earnest now, mouths open and slow.

"Did you put something in the wine?" Clark asks, mouth along Bruce's jaw.

"Not a thing," Bruce says, sounding amused, arching his neck so that Clark's mouth slides down, the slight tang of aftershave.

"Good. This is just me then. What we both want."

Bruce brings him up for another kiss, a long one and breathless. Soon he places a hand over one of Clark's, presses down until Clark's palm rests on top of his erection. He grinds up, pushing. "That's for you, Clark. All for you." And then he pushes Clark's shoulders past any hint of suggestion until Clark finds himself kneeling on the floor, between Bruce's spread legs, with Bruce hastily opening up his trousers.

Clark blinks. Bruce's hand is at the base of his cock now, the other hand pushing Clark's head forward. Bruce is beyond pushy. Clark looks up, uncertain.

"You don't have to," Bruce says, hushed and looking a little uncertain himself. "I know you've never...We could just...Jesus, Clark, get back up here."

But Bruce's words only reassure him, that maybe this is the right thing to do. So when Bruce takes his hand away, Clark leans forward, takes Bruce in his mouth. Slowly, at first. Clark hasn't done this for longer than he wants to think about. In fact, he rarely thinks about that time at all. But what the mind forgets, the body remembers. Bruce gasps above him, a good sound, as he swallows him down. Soon his hands are in his hair, hips moving, as Clark's hands roam and tease. There's nothing but this room, its dim light, mouth full and moving, thighs quivering under his hands. And then the tensing, the salty release.

Clark swallows, opens his eyes. Bruce is staring at him, mouth slightly open, shuddering down. Clark smiles, hard as anything himself now, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He rises, sits next to Bruce on the couch. Bruce still stares down at the floor where Clark had been.

"Hey," Clark says, attempting to kiss him, but Bruce refuses to turn. Oh, the aftertaste. He's never minded it, but Bruce might. Clark reaches for his wineglass, takes a hasty swish and swallows. It's his turn. In a minute, Bruce will return the favor. Or now that Clark's taken the edge off, they can go upstairs, take their time. Bruce practically said they had all night. He tries to kiss him again, but Bruce turns his head away. Bruce stands and zips himself back up.

"I should get ready for patrol," he says, still not looking at Clark. He goes to the door, smoothing his collar, the creases on his trousers.

Maybe patrol is Bruce's idea of a date? "I'll come with you," Clark says. His erection protests, insists that he grab Bruce right then and there, even things out. He ignores it until it petulantly slinks away.

"No," Bruce says. "You have your own city. You should go home."

Clark stands. "But Bruce--"

"I'll walk you to the door."

Clark finds himself standing in the entryway, Alfred hurrying down the hall from the kitchen. He whispers, far away and in shock, he can't bear for Alfred to hear, "Wasn't it any good?"

Bruce just smiles, fake as anything. The act, it had all been the act. "The best, really." And then he actually says, turning as he's walking away down the hall, "I'll call you."

Alfred stands next to him as Bruce disappears into the study. He doesn't get his coat.

"Mister Kent," he says, knowing and sorrowful, "Please, have a cup of tea before you go. It's no trouble."

 

Clark sits slumped slightly forward in a kitchen chair, a cup of chamomile in front of him. Alfred sits across from him. The kitchen clock ticks.

"I'll speak to him about his boorish behavior," Alfred says. "And if I have anything to say about it, and I certainly will, you'll have your waffles in the morning."

Clark looks up at that. "Thank you," he says, "But given the circumstances--"

"Nonsense. You've always been a welcome guest in this house. Even if certain persons momentarily forget that. And their manners."

Guest. That's how Bruce referred to him earlier, and Alfred had bridled at the word. "He does this a lot," Clark says to his tea cup. Of course Bruce does this a lot. Clark's just another member of the parade.

"He's spoken of your recent circumstances. I'm so sorry."

Clark takes a hasty sip of tea, glances back up. Alfred sips from his own cup, leans forward. "He speaks of you quite often, actually. More than anyone in your particular trade."

He can only let out a small laugh at that, tiny and bitter. "I find that hard to believe." If Bruce does talk about him, he's sure most of it isn't good.

Alfred reaches out then, pats him on the hand. "Recent events aside, I can assure you that he has a great deal of respect for you. He's been angry on your behalf on several occasions, quite protective. As I'm sure you're aware, Master Bruce doesn't take to people easily. And he certainly doesn't invite them into his home."

Considering what just happened, Clark wants to contradict that. But he knows that Alfred is only trying to be helpful, reassuring, bolster a cracked and fragile ego, so he says nothing.

"Did I forget the biscuits?" Alfred says, rising. "Goodness, where are _my_ manners?" He goes to the cabinet, but instead of pulling down a tin of cookies, he gets a jar of peanut butter and another one of jelly, bread from the breadboard. He proceeds to make several sandwiches, cutting them into small triangles and placing them on a plate. Comfort food. Dick's favorite, from years ago, back when he still lived here. Clark can easily imagine a younger Dick slumped in this same chair, Alfred comforting him with words and similar sandwiches for some inexplicable thing that Bruce had done. When Alfred places the plate in the center of the table, Clark gives him a genuine smile, thanks him.

"You've been more than a friend to us over the years, Mister Kent. You're family. I can't imagine what we would have done if you hadn't been there for Master Dick during our troubles. You were there when Master Jason..." Alfred's voice trails off. He coughs and resumes. "You've even been a help with Master Tim." He pauses, finishes his tea. "There are members of this house that do appreciate you. And he does as well. I can only hope that what transpired this evening doesn't serve to alienate you. You will be missed if it does."

From below, Clark hears the batmobile peel out of the cave. He lets out a breath that he didn't even know that he had held in.

Alfred pours himself another cup of tea, tops off Clark's cup. "He's gone," he says, noting Clark's reaction.

"Yes." Suddenly, it occurs to him that Alfred has another motive for keeping him here in this house. If he had left when Bruce had shown him the door, Clark may very well have confronted Bruce on some back road. At the moment, he can't say that he wouldn't have done that, been above it. The small kernel of anger that burns in his chest wouldn't have been soothed with chamomile, may very well have blossomed into something terrible. "You're protecting him," he says.

Alfred looks down at his hands. "I've half a mind not to," he says. He looks up. "But yes. Always."

Clark picks up one of the small sandwiches, but doesn't eat. "You're protecting me too," he says.

Alfred smiles, pats him on the hand again. "As I said, Mister Kent. You're family." He waits for Clark to finish the sandwich, his tea. "I've something to show you."

Clark follows Alfred down the hall to the study. Alfred takes an ornate box down from the mantle, retrieves a small key from a smaller box, opens it. Inside it, wrapped in satin blue ribbon tied off in a bow, lie a stack of envelopes of various sizes.

"You'll have to use your special gifts to peruse these, I'm afraid," Alfred says. "I'm betraying a confidence by showing you this much."

Clark scans the envelopes. Within them are every single card, the occasional letter, that he's given Bruce over the years. The ribbon has several creases, as if it's been untied and retied several times. Some of the letters have additional creases as well, as if they've been opened and refolded more than once.

"Master Bruce," Alfred says, "Is at heart a very sentimental man. His aloof air is an indication of great feeling, not a lack of it." Alfred closes the box puts it back on the mantle. "If I could show you your room, sir? Perhaps the two of you can speak in the morning."

Clark does feel tired. "I can't stay, Alfred. You know that."

Alfred smiles, wistful. "You can't blame an old man for trying. Please, Mister Kent, don't be a stranger. I'll get your coat."

As he stands in the entryway, coat now on and tie in his pocket, Clark holds out his hand. "I don't know when or if I'll be back, Alfred. I just want to thank you. For everything."

Alfred clasps his hand. His hand is firm but his voice not when he speaks. This is goodbye and he knows it. "You're quite welcome, Mister Kent. Safe journey."

When Clark reaches the gates, he turns, takes a good long look at the manor. He has no intention of returning here ever again. After a minute, then two, he's done. He turns his face upward, lifts, and goes home.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next few days, which becomes a week and then more, Clark's phone, of course, does not ring. Not that he sits around waiting for it. Oh no, Clark has _things_ to do. A job, two jobs really. He keeps busy, only checking for messages every few hours or so. When he thinks about it. Because he's busy. There's a flood in Mississippi, the Two Trees article, an old communications satellite that needs to be diverted from crashing into downtown Sydney, and of course, the weekly Planet meeting. _Things_.

'I'll call you' becomes his new mantra.

"I'll call you," he says to the men's room mirror at the office. "I'll call you," he says to the television during a commercial break and between mouthfuls of takeout Pad Thai. "I'll call you," he says to a colony of penguins in Antarctica. "I'll call you," he says to his silent phone on the nightstand, pillow over his head. "I'll call you."

He only realizes that maybe he's overdoing it when he's hauling Impendo to the Metropolis police station.

"Really?" Impendo says. "I've heard that about you. That you're all about the rehabilitation, keeping in touch. Maybe that's why the recidivism rate is 37% lower in Metropolis than it is in Gotham."

Superman pauses in mid-air. "Is it? I hadn't heard that."

Impendo nods his head and his sonic glasses fall so that Clark has to swoop slightly to catch them. "Thanks!" he says. "You have no idea how much those cost me."

"These are evidence," Clark says in his most stern Superman voice.

"Oh yeah, I know. But as I was saying, you have that little extra touch."

They land on the sidewalk. On the way up the stairs, Impendo says, "When I was ten, I wanted to _be_ you. Had the cape and everything."

This is not the time to tell Clark that he's old. "How old are you now?" he says. They're almost at the door.

"Nineteen."

Just a kid. "What happened?" Clark's seen too many Superman wannabes turn supervillain. He's not sure what to do about that.

Impendo looks down. "I don't know. Life, I guess." He looks up. "But, man, if I were in Gotham, I wouldn't be just setting off a light and sound show in the park. You have to be serious to play there."

"So I've heard."

"But you're friends with Batman, right?"

"Not really. We just work together."

"Huh. Word on the street is that you two are tight. Anyway, you should tell him what I said about the recidivism. He could take a page from your playbook."

See, Bruce? This is what happens when you don't _call_ people. They get mad. They commit crime. Not that Clark's going to do anything like that. But flying off after this and pounding a ton of boulders into gravel sounds good right about now. He's already done that though. A bunch of times. The gravel works here and in three surrounding states won't take any more of his deliveries. He hasn't tried Canada yet. But they have to be Canadian boulders turned gravel. He doesn't want to cause a tariff dispute.

Clark just shrugs. "Different city, different methods." Clark opens the door and they step inside.

 

The League meeting rolls around again and it's not like Clark can call in sick to that. If Superman doesn't show up, people start asking questions. He can be professional. He times it so that he shows up right when it starts. He sits in his chair, smiles, looks relaxed. He should after spending three hours at the Fortress meditating. He can do this.

Bruce sits across from him and stares the entire time. It's unnerving. Or it would be if he didn't notice the too-steady heartbeat. Bruce is cheating. Or just showing off control of his autonomic reflexes. Clark just nods, acknowledges him, and then turns to answer a question.

The meeting breaks up for the dreaded coffee break. Clark can't avoid the coffee pot in the lounge now. He always sets up shop there, socializes. He makes sure he has his best Superman smile on before he gets his coffee.

"How are you, Kal?" Diana says. "We haven't talked in a while."

Clark turns, gives her a fierce hug. He holds on for a minute, then two. "I've been a bad friend," he says. "I haven't really talked to anyone." She feels good, safe. He can't break her if he squeezes. He doesn't let go.

"You know I'm always here for you," she says.

A shadow passes over them and stays.

"Could the two of you do that somewhere else?" Bruce says. "Preferably somewhere private. You have ten minutes before the meeting starts up again. Get it out of your system."

Okay, that's it. "Excuse me," Clark says to Diana. Then he and Bruce are a whoosh of air through the corridors until Clark finds one empty enough.

"You're incredibly rude, you know that?" Clark says as he sets Bruce down. Bruce leans against the wall, catches a breath that Clark's speed hadn't allowed.

But instead of the scowl and the argument he's expecting, a slow smile crawls across Bruce's face. He reaches out his gauntlet and runs it up Clark's arm. "We have ten minutes," he says.

"What?" Clark can't think of anything more to say than that. Whatever reflex control Bruce displayed in the meeting is gone now. His heartbeat's up. Clark can hear the soft whir of pupils dilating with desire behind the mask.

"We had a good time, Clark," he says. "And right now, we have nine and a half minutes."

Clark just laughs. "Who's this _we_?" he says. "The only one that had a good time was _you_. You know what? You're rude _and_ selfish. You honestly think I'd do that again?"

Bruce steps forward, ignoring the clear sign of boundary. Too close, much too close. "I said you were the best. I meant that."

Clark backs away, holds up his hands. "I don't have time for this," he says. "You got a blowjob from Superman. Good for you. Stick it in your trophy case. I really don't care. But don't expect another one to go with it." He turns, walks up the corridor.

From behind him, he hears bootsteps following. "Clark, I can explain...I was going to call you."

"Lose my number," Clark says, not bothering to so much as look over his shoulder as he's walking farther down the corridor.

"Clark!"

He whirls around. Bruce is standing still, just three feet behind him. "You don't get to call me that, Batman. Not anymore."

He turns, walks back to the lounge. Bruce doesn't follow.

When the meeting opens again, Bruce's chair is empty. It stays that way.

 

If Clark had been busy before, he keeps extra busy now. He takes on extra assignments at the Planet, staying at his desk well after hours, pounds the pavement following leads, research. He doubles his charity work. He flies the globe, reacting to any emergency, even if some of the other heroes are already covering it. Anything to stay away from his apartment, sometimes even sleeping in the Fortress.

His voicemail, which had few messages if any, is now full to capacity. All of them hangups. Sure, some of them could be telemarketers, but the ones timestamped four in the morning look suspicious.

He changes his number, gets caller id. But the hangups continue, all from "caller unknown".

So on the odd night that he happens to be home, Clark picks up the phone when it rings. He takes a deep breath, fights the adrenaline surge, before he says, "Hello?"

"Mr. Kent," the voice says in slightly accented English. "This is Ed Charles. I can assure you this isn't a sales call so if I could take a moment of your time..."

Clark pulls the phone away, slumps down on the couch. None of the lights are on. He lets out a quiet laugh before putting the phone back to his ear.

"...our area representative can contact you, set up an appointment."

"Thank you, but whatever it is, I'm afraid I'm not interested."

"But let me tell you about the details of our exciting offer--"

Clark rubs his eyes, stares at the ceiling. "What time is it in Delhi?" he says.

Ed Charles pauses for a second. "Delhi, sir?"

"I have an ear for accents," Clark says in flawless Punjabi.

Mr. Charles gets quite excited. "How long have you been in America?" he says, also in Punjabi.

They talk for another ten minutes. By the end of the conversation, Clark has a standing dinner invitation if he ever happens to be in Delhi.

"Good luck with the new baby," Clark says. "I'm sorry you didn't get the sale."

"Oh, that's quite all right. Honestly, you've made my day. You're a good man."

When Clark hangs up the phone, he stares at the ceiling again. Good man. At least someone thinks he is. He unplugs the phone and goes to bed.

 

The world's in crisis again. It seems like the world's in crisis at least every other Tuesday. The League is in position on the dark side of the moon, ready to meet the X'har invasion fleet.

Superman nods to Batman beside him. "Let's get to work," he says.

They do. They've always worked well together, have a rhythm. They get the job done. Or, at least, Superman almost does. Halfway through the battle, a green laser strikes him full in the chest. The last thing he sees as he's floating away are silent explosions.

The next moment, he opens his eyes to see the light strips of the Watchtower corridor as he's being pushed on a gurney. He has something on his face. Oxygen mask. He struggles to sit up.

"Lie down!" Bruce's voice, next to him. The cadence of boots, running.

"The fleet..." he murmurs.

"Turned away. Now shut up!"

Everything goes blank again.

Through a fog sometime later, he hears voices, raised, arguing.

"I'll take him." Bruce.

"He needs to stay in the medical bay, Batman. He's in no condition--" J'onn.

"And he won't be in any condition unless he gets planetside. I'm the only one with the facilities. I'm taking him so all of you can just back the hell off!"

"Calm down. You're reacting emotionally--" Diana.

"Do you people listen? Get us ready for transport. Now."

"He's not yours to--"

"The hell he isn't."

"Hey, just let Bats do his thing. He'll take care of the big guy." Wally.

Clark drifts off before he can add his own voice to the argument.

 

When he wakes up, he's lying on a futon in the manor's solarium. He's naked and fully exposed to the mid-morning sun. He turns his head slightly. Bad idea. Just like a hangover, or so he's heard, with none of the fun to make it worth it. The room spins until he can focus. He has pins and needles scraping under his skin, healing. Bruce leans forward in a wicker chair, cushions a fern pattern, expression intense but otherwise unreadable.

"Did you get any sleep?" Clark says. His voice is fuzzy. Something crawled in his mouth and died.

"Sleep is for the weak," Bruce says.

"Says the man who drinks coffee by the bucket." Clark attempts a smile. That's a bad idea too.

"Do you want some?" There's a thermos and two cups on the reading table next to Bruce.

"Maybe later. Water would be good."

Bruce rises, slowly. He's clearly exhausted. He's dressed for work. His other job, the day one. He crouches by a small cooler, gets a water bottle. "Don't get up," he says as he walks over to Clark, unscrews the cap and hands him the bottle.

Clark drains the whole thing in about two seconds.

"Another one?"

"No. I'm good for now. Thank you."

Bruce smiles, just the corners of his mouth, small and real. "Always with the please and thank you," he says. "It's a good thing one of us has manners." He sits on the edge of the futon. Clark rolls to face him and the nausea rolls with him. He pushes it away. They say nothing for several minutes.

They say nothing until Clark reaches out, touches Bruce's knee. Bruce tenses, but then relaxes. A sigh escapes him, as if fifty pounds lifts from his shoulders. "Clark," he says, voice rough. "And yes, Clark. You're under my roof, I can call you whatever I damn well please. Jesus, Clark, we almost lost you."

"They always aim for me first."

Bruce lets out a small sound, for him a laugh. "You and the Lanterns. It's good strategy."

"Hal and Kyle, are they--"

"The Lanterns take care of their own," he says. The intense expression he had earlier climbs through the exhaustion. "And I take care of my own."

Clark isn't sure what to say to that. He reaches out his other hand and pulls. Bruce is too tired to resist and soon he's lying next to Clark on the futon.

"I'll rumple my suit," he says, feeble protest.

"Nothing that Bruce Wayne's reputation can't handle, I'm sure." He smiles and this time it doesn't hurt.

Bruce just looks at him. "Where are you that you don't answer your phone at four in the morning, Clark?"

"Normal people don't answer the phone then," he says. "It's always some drunk with the wrong number. I'm usually out at that time anyway now."

"I don't drink," Bruce says, edging closer. "Usually. You changed your number."

"You found the new one. You could have left a message." Clark brushes back Bruce's hair. Bruce closes his eyes briefly.

"I don't talk to machines. So answer the question, where are you?"

"Out," Clark says. "Let's not do this now."

"Then when, goddammit?" He grabs Clark's shoulder, pulls until they're face to face. "The next time some alien warlord tries to kill you?"

"Shhh, not now." Clark rubs his thumb along Bruce's temple, a small circular motion. "Close your eyes."

Bruce's eyes close and stay that way. "You and your goddamned Kryptonian pheromones," he mumbles. "You've ruined it for me...didn't mean...need to explain...Clark, listen..." And his voice trails off, breath evening out into soft snores.

Soon there's a gentle knock at the door. "Master Bruce," Alfred says, "The limousine is waiting with the investors inside."

There's a robe at the foot of the futon. Clark grabs it and hastily ties the sash before he opens the door.

"Ah, Mister Kent," Alfred says, beaming. "So good to see you up and about."

Clark puts a finger to his lips, whispers, "He's sleeping."

Alfred peers around him. "He refused to do so earlier, sir. But I'm afraid the investors won't wait."

Clark shakes his head, steps out into the hall, closing the door behind them. "You know what's best for him, Alfred," he says. "Even if he doesn't. Can you send them on ahead? Tell them to wait an hour?"

Alfred nods. "Very well, sir." He walks down the hall. "Your usual room is prepared, as always, Mister Kent. You'll find a change of clothes in there. Meet me in the kitchen when it's convenient."

 

Clark finds not one change of clothes, as Alfred put it, but several, a whole closet full, and exactly his size. Along with several pairs of boots, shoes. Also his size. The adjoining bathroom is stocked with toiletries. He takes a quick shower, dresses. On the bureau rests the pair of glasses that he had abandoned here that horrible night.

He makes his way down to the kitchen.

"I sent them on ahead, sir, per your suggestion. They're willing to wait." Alfred is making sandwiches. "You must be famished after your ordeal, Mister Kent."

Clark's stomach growls as the smell of roast beef, fresh baked bread and garden greens hits him. "I am a bit hungry, Alfred. Thank you."

"I took the liberty of phoning your place of work. I spoke with Ms. Lane." Alfred places a full plate in front of Clark at the kitchen table. "She was quite understanding."

Lois still covers for him, stands between himself and Perry at his most irate. Even if she is seeing someone else at the moment. A woman like Lois, she doesn't stay single long. Clark, on the other hand, only has one awful night with Bruce to show for his new bachelorhood. And here he is again when he swore up and down that he never would be. The roast beef sticks in his throat. Clark takes a gulp of milk to help swallow it down. "Thank you," he manages.

Alfred just looks at him for a moment. "I should tell you that I haven't served oysters in this house for the past month."

Clark looks up, milk dribbling down his chin. He grabs his napkin, embarrassed, and wipes his mouth.

"Master Bruce, on the other hand, is convinced that you are partaking in oysters elsewhere."

"Excuse me?" Clark puts down his sandwich, stares at his plate.

Alfred leans back in his chair, lifts his cup and sets it back down again. "I told you that he's a man of great feeling. Unfortunately for him, those feelings extend to fear and petty jealousies. He believes that you find others more suitable and that your presence is in high demand."

Clark's mouth opens. He hopes he doesn't have bits of beef stuck between his teeth. "That's insane!" he says. "Then why—?"

"Master Bruce doesn't sleep well. This affects his rationality, as well as his personal life."

Shaking his head, Clark pushes his plate away, folds his arms on the table and sinks his head into them. He groans. "What I do or don't do isn't any of his business," Clark says. "Not after..."

"So I informed him, sir. He did not welcome my opinion."

Clark stands. "I...I need to go," he says. "Thank you for the food and the hospitality."

Alfred stands as well. "You're welcome to stay, Mister Kent. Or come by again. And that's not just my invitation, but his. If you'll forgive my crudeness in repeating his words verbatim, I believe he phrased it, 'He can come by any damn time he wants. He knows where the hell I live.'"

"I need to go," Clark says again.

"What shall I tell him, sir, when he wakes?"

"Tell him he knows where I live too. He can find me if he wants."

Alfred's face breaks out into a quick grin, but then that disappears behind his professional demeanor. "I will let him know you said that, sir. Safe journey, Mister Kent."

 

The next day, Clark's sitting at his desk, pencil in his mouth, working through lunch to make up the lost time from the day before. Most of the desks around him are empty, including Lois's. She's off to lunch with her new boyfriend. He looks up when he hears the front desk receptionist walk toward him.

He looks up and can't look down again. All he sees are two dozen long-stemmed roses in an elaborate vase on a pair of legs. They're aimed for his desk. But these can't be for him. Since these roses don't have a pair of eyes to go with them, it's possible they're misdirected.

The vase lands on his desk.

"Phew!" Lorraine says. "They're heavier than they look." She leans down, sniffs. "Mmm, somebody sure likes you."

Clark flushes. These, well, they're certainly not manly. He's been accused of being a girl in the past, but this is ridiculous. "I'm sure these are meant for one of the ladies," he says.

She's smoothing away the water spots on her blouse. "Nope. There's a card." She picks out a small white envelope hidden in the teeming bouquet. "Here."

Clark takes it and opens it.

'Will you stay in one damn place long enough to let me explain?' is all it says. Great. No mistaking who these are from. Fine, Bruce, just telegraph to the whole world our little problem.

"They're for me," he mutters, slinking slightly down in his chair. "Thank you," he adds quickly.

Lorraine leans down to sniff again. "Somebody did something bad," she says, smirking. "People only get these if they're on stage or if a certain someone has to apologize."

Clark slinks further down in his chair. If he slinks any further, he'll be on the floor. He's a serious shade of red now. "It's personal," he mumbles.

"It always is, hon. It always is." She walks away.

Lorraine's several desks away when Clark remembers something. "Wait!" he says. He jogs toward her, hand reaching for his wallet. All delivery tips come out of petty cash and that has to be reimbursed. "How much do I owe for the tip?"

She just looks at him and laughs. "You don't tip the _owner_ ," she says.

Owner? Clark blinks. Maybe the florist had been one short today and the shopkeeper had driven these down? "The florist?" he says.

"No, silly. The _owner_. He brought these by himself, wouldn't go further than my desk though when I told him you were in. Nice catch, by the way. But watch yourself. You're on the rebound. If he's messing up now..."

Clark just stands there, jaw dropping. He can't think of a convenient lie. "You can't tell anyone, Lorraine. Please," he whispers.

She just snorts. "This is Metropolis, young man. No one cares about that sort of thing." She winks. "But if anyone asks, I'll say they're from your mother."

"Thank you," he says. He goes back to his desk, stares at his roses. They're not _red_ , thank goodness. They're sort of gray. Gray? What's that supposed to mean? These would look perfectly at home in a funeral parlor. Knowing Bruce, it has to mean _something_. He spends the rest of his lunch hour looking up the language of flowers on the internet.

 

Clark does a quick patrol after work and heads home. Metropolis is relatively quiet this evening. There's a two-alarm fire on the west side, but the fire department looks like they have that under control. He showers, fixes himself a quick dinner. He turns on the television, but turns it off after fifteen minutes because he's staring at the phone and not the set. It doesn't ring.

Five minutes later, there's a knock at the door. It's Bruce, with another bunch of gray roses. Clark fidgets, palms suddenly sweaty.

"You could have called," he says as he flings open the door. He's standing there barefoot in a t-shirt and sweatpants. Bruce, on the other hand, is dressed up. "Going somewhere?" he says. It comes out petulant, like he's twelve or something.

"Yes, Clark," Bruce says, deadpan. "I'm on my way to pick up my date for the opera. How do I look?"

"You—"

Bruce steps inside, slams the door behind him. "Why should I call when you never answer your phone? I had to sit at the diner across the way for two hours. What self-respecting diner serves _brown_ coffee? It's terrible."

Clark folds his arms. "I'm sorry for your ordeal," he says.

"Here." Bruce thrusts the bouquet at Clark, quite unceremoniously.

"And what's with the gray flowers anyway?" Clark says, taking the bouquet and poking Bruce in the chest with the rose tips. "Are they supposed to mean something?"

Bruce just tilts his head, shrugs. "Hell if I know. They're sterling silver roses. Women like them."

"I'm not a girl!"

"Stop acting like one."

Clark leans back against the wall. "Did you come all this way just to insult me?" He closes his eyes. "I don't want to fight, Bruce."

"I owe you an explanation. But I'll fuck it up if I say anything," he says. "Let me just show you."

Clark opens his eyes when he hears Bruce's knees hit the floor. He's still clutching his gray roses so he can't see, not without cheating, what Bruce is doing. He gasps when he feels Bruce's hands at his waistband. They pull down. "Not here!" he hisses.

"Then where?" Bruce's voice, waist level, says.

"I hear the bedroom's pretty standard. But that's just a rumor."

Bruce laughs, head against Clark's bare thigh. "Smartass."

 

In the bedroom, Clark undresses, throws his clothes in the hamper. "Now you," he says, as he turns the blanket down. He lies back on the bed, leans up on his elbows. He watches, but Bruce stands at the foot of the bed in suit and trench coat, hesitant and unsure. "Look," Clark says, "If you don't want to do this--"

Hands in his pockets, Bruce says, "I haven't undressed in front of anyone for years."

Clark sits all the way up. "Seriously? Then how do you--?"

"I manage."

Over the years, when Clark's accidentally stumbled upon Bruce, either as Bruce at some event or as Batman, in more than a few compromising positions, Bruce has always had the maximum amount of clothing on for whatever--and it's been a _lot_ of whatevers-- he's been doing. But Bruce has changed in front of Clark plenty of times, completely unashamed. "It's nothing I haven't seen before," Clark says. 

He's up on his knees now, crawls down the bed. He rises, puts his fingers underneath the collar of the trench coat, slides it past Bruce's shoulders. "I'll help."

Bruce closes his eyes as Clark works off his tie, slips the suit jacket to the floor. Clark mouths his neck, as he undoes the shirt buttons one by one. His mouth works his way up as his hands work their way down until Bruce grabs Clark's head with both hands and pulls him in. They kiss wet and slow, Clark doing the rest of the job by feel. He even manages the cufflinks. Bruce must have toed off his shoes and socks because when Clark undoes the belt, unzips, the suit pants fall all the way to the floor.

When Clark pulls back, Bruce says, "Don't look. They're not--"

"Sexy?" Clark says as his fingers trace the three indentations on Bruce's left shoulder, bullet scars. A few inches down from that a knife wound, long slash, an inch below that the stab. Stitch lines, whip lash, claws, even bite marks. They're everywhere, not a part of his body free of them. "But Bruce," he says, "This is your book. Let me read it."

Bruce's eyes widen, and the next second he pushes Clark down on the bed, grinding on top of him and tongue in his mouth.

They could do this, but the way Bruce's breath quickens, the jerk of his hips, tells Clark that he's not going to last. Clark manages to pull away enough to say, "Nuh uh. You owe me."

Bruce pauses, head bowed, and nods. He works his way down.

It's good. More than good because it's Bruce. Clark leans back up on his elbow to watch, leans a hand forward to run through Bruce's hair. Bruce's eyes are closed, concentrating.

And then Clark gets it. He bites his lip to keep from laughing. A good laugh, freeing, but Bruce will be pissed if he does so he moans instead, whimpers, encouraging.

Sure there's technique here, tons of it. But it's as if Bruce has studied a book, watched an instructional video. There's no real experience behind it. Bruce has never done this before. He scrapes a bit with his teeth, which for Clark is fine. Too shallow and then too fast. So Clark whispers, "That's it," when Bruce gets it right, silently adjusts when he doesn't.

And it's not like Bruce isn't into it. The way his thighs are splayed, his ass flexing, Bruce is grinding into the bed. He comes right before Clark does so he's distracted, chokes a little, when Clark hits the back of his mouth. He swallows.

Bruce pulls off, breathes heavily into Clark's thigh. "So now you know," he says.

Clark does laugh then, falling back to the pillow. "I deflowered you." He keeps on laughing.

Bruce rises, falls beside him with a grunt. "Jesus, Clark, shut up. Was it that bad?"

Clark turns, wraps an arm around him, the laugh gentling down, but still going. "No," he says. "It was perfect." Oh God, so Bruce to make such a mess over something so stupid. "It was you."

Bruce rolls into him then, kisses him. Whether to shut him up or reassure him, Clark doesn't care. Whatever his reason, it's sweet and lingering. They kiss for a while. But Clark eventually says, "Why, Bruce?"

Bruce rolls onto his back, runs his hands through his hair, sighs. "Which part?"

"Pick one. Start from there."

"I just went with what I knew, what worked."

"Some of us use Earth logic. Translate."

"God, you're a smartass. Why isn't that in your brochure?"

Clark leans in, kisses his shoulder. "It's one of the things you love about me," he says. Joke. But Bruce only gives him a worried sidelong look as if it's a serious statement, true, and a horrible secret.

"Yes, well," Bruce says. He coughs. "If we're going to do the pillow talk thing, could you at least get me a glass of water? You're a terrible host."

"Notice my lack of houseplants," Clark says on his way to the bathroom. He runs the tap. Bruce sits up as Clark hands him the glass. "Generally something has to make noise to get my attention."

"I thought she just took them."

"Well, that too," Clark says as he gets back into bed.

"I thought that was going to last forever. The two of you were always a package deal."

"You managed to sleep with her," Clark says, coaxing the glass from Bruce's hand, taking a sip and handing it back. "But we weren't really together yet so it's okay."

"She told you?"

"I figured it out."

Bruce leans back on the headboard. He finishes his water, puts it on the nightstand. "I felt like crap about that for years." He doesn't say anything else for a minute. "But then she leaves. She leaves _you_. I had a narrow window. Two weeks, two weeks at the most."

"Two weeks for what? You're not making any sense."

Bruce just looks at him as if he's a complete idiot. "Two weeks until you were with someone else."

Clark rolls over, away, looks out the slightly open window, curtains fluttering. "She left six weeks ago. I didn't...Oh. I guess I did." He rolls back. "I guess I am?"

"You are," Bruce says, drawing up his knees and looking over. "Is that what you want?"

"Do you?"

Bruce rubs his chin, shakes his head. "I don't know. I'm thirty-five years old and have never had a serious relationship. What does that tell you?"

"That you're a late bloomer?"

Bruce throws back his head and laughs. "Clark, what am I going to do with you?"

Clark lets his body go languid, he lazily runs a finger up Bruce's arm. "I can think of several things."

Bruce's laugh dies instantly. "Who was it?" he says, quiet and deadly.

"What?"

Bruce leans over. "Who was it, Clark? Before Lois, there was Lori. Before Lori, there was Lana. Just where did you acquire your particular skill set? Because if that night had gone like I had so painstakingly planned, we would have fumbled on that couch for a while and then you would have never left my house! But no, you had to give me the best blowjob I've ever had in my _life_. And believe me, I've had many to compare it to."

Clark rises to meet him. "You're the one who took off! You're the one who--"

"Well, I'm an asshole, Clark! What did you expect, throwing me like that?"

"You knew I wasn't a virgin. Don't give me that. Don't--"

"The last time I looked, Lois didn't have a dick you could suck on for practice."

Clark turns at that point, sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. "I can't believe you just said that."

But Bruce doesn't back down. "Who was it? Hal? I can possibly see that. If you tell me Wally, I'll--"

"I haven't done this since I was seventeen." Clark says quietly. "That's when it ended."

Bruce is quiet for a moment. He puts a hand on Clark's shoulder, a silent apology. And when he speaks again, his voice is soft. "Seventeen? As in high school? I'm sorry, Clark, I didn't think back that far." He pulls Clark back and down. Clark doesn't resist. Bruce wraps an arm around him, kisses his hair. "God, I'm an ass. How can you possibly put up with me?"

Clark doesn't want to fight. He's just tired. Hopefully, Bruce will stop asking questions. He won't like the answer and Clark's not going to lie if Bruce figures it out. "I don't know," he says. "I just do."

Drop it, Bruce. Just drop it. But Bruce wouldn't be Bruce if he did. He's going to keep going.

"You said it ended when you were seventeen. When did it start?"

"Freshman year," Clark says, his voice a distant thing. "It was a long time ago, Bruce. Can't you just--"

"Pete Ross? And somehow, the two of you have stayed friends."

Clark closes his eyes. "No, not Pete. He was older."

Bruce suddenly stiffens. He's figured it out. The detective always has to know, dig up the bones of the past. He pulls away, sits on his edge of the bed, hands braced to the side--braced so hard, the veins look like they're going to pop.

"Jesus Fucking H. _Christ!_!"

He stands, goes to the foot of the bed, picks up his clothes. Clark doesn't try to stop him. "Where are you going?" he says. It doesn't matter. Bruce is leaving.

But when Bruce looks up, his eyes aren't filled with disgust but pain. He's looking at Clark like he's some victim of child abuse, a child that Bruce failed to save.

"To kill Lex Luthor."

And Bruce looks every inch the warrior, battle-scarred and fierce, capable of the unthinkable. "That's not what we do, Bruce. Just come back to bed. Please. It doesn't matter."

Bruce is shaking. The words come out gritted, harsh. "He _touched_ you, Clark. He touched _you_.

Clark sits up, that's all he can manage. "So what? I don't regret that part." And he doesn't. Sure, he'd been angry for a while, but he's come to peace with it. "It's just everything else."

"How can he do those things to you when he--"

Clark holds out his hand. "Come back to bed. Sleep on it."

Bruce's clothes fall back to the floor. He walks to the bed. "I never said I was going to stay."

Clark just looks at him, keeps the covers pulled back, inviting. "Aren't you?"

Bruce gets into the bed, silent. He faces Clark, brings his fingers to Clark's mouth and just touches. He takes them away and kisses him, a brush.

Clark smiles, pulls the blanket back up. He drifts off before Bruce does. If Bruce ever does. He dreams of spaceships and cornfields. He's on a bridge and it's Bruce who barrels toward him behind the wheel of a car this time. Instead of falling, he flies, taking Bruce with him into the sky. Bruce never drowns, he can't.

"It doesn't matter," Clark says while they're in the clouds. They burst free, the sun above them and they're just a shadow on the landscape, flitting over fields and then cities, oceans. They have the world. "What matters is what we do now."

When he wakes up, Bruce is still there in the morning.


End file.
